LIII

Once they're back, Eleven goes to her room without saying a word.

He just watches her go in silence.

Although he understands that he must give Eleven some space to process the events of the day, this is not easy for him, especially considering that he is used to breaking down any barrier that stands between him and his goals. Therefore, even though he's promised to leave her mind alone, Henry hates not knowing what Eleven is thinking and having to settle for mere speculation. What's more: he is so restless that, pathetically, he is unable to concentrate on his books or even on some silly soap opera.

Resigned to his lack of control over Eleven's thoughts—and, apparently, his own—he opts for going to train in the yard.

Hours later, a huge tree lies, roots exposed, in front of him. He's using his forearm to wipe the sweat from his forehead when he hears the faint throat clearing behind him.

Instantly, he turns around to find Eleven, who is already wearing her light gray pajamas. The moonlight barely illuminates her countenance.

"You're… training?" The answer to her question is obvious, yes, but they both know that it is only the preamble to what she really means to say.

However, Henry plays along without protest: "I find that it helps me relax at certain times."

At difficult times, like this, he completes inside his head.

Eleven nods and walks down the steps until her bare feet reach the grass. "Let me help you… put everything back in place…"

The girl cocks her head and, with a dexterity unimaginable years ago, lifts the tree into the air. Then, carefully, she places it back in the hole that had remained. Henry frowns.

"It's in vain," he points out. "Its roots have been severed."

Eleven's half smile is calm and, even though she hears him, she doesn't stop—she carefully tucks the Virginia pine back into place.

"Look inside," she asks of him once she's done.

Although her request confuses him, Henry does as he is told: he closes his eyes and turns his mind to the roots he has destroyed.

The roots that he now finds healthy. He can certainly make out the cuts he's made—those Eleven has sutured to near perfection—but, concerning its practical application, the nutrients seem to find no obstacle when traversing those previously mown pathways.

He opens his eyes back again, fully aware that he's unable to hide his pride when looking at her. She must see it, for her smile widens, though her expression still betrays a hint of wariness.

"That's amazing," he praises her, because he would never offer her anything less than his honest assessment in these matters. "How did you come to learn this?"

She shrugs, and Henry watches, to his disappointment, how her smile fades.

"I like… fixing things. Not breaking them."

He usually strives to maintain a façade that is, if not one hundred percent circumspect, then at least mature—this time, however, Henry is forced to roll his eyes. "Really, Eleven?"

"I told you," she retorts without hesitation, "I could take care of Billy."

Henry presses his temples between his index finger and thumb as he exhales a breath. "Eleven—"

"No, listen to me." The sound of her footsteps on the grass anticipates her closeness; when he lowers his hand, she is facing him, fists clenched, expression belligerent. "I've listened to you, now it is you who… Who must listen to me."

"I'm listening," he replies softly, his eyes on her. "Speak."

Despite his intimidating expression, the girl does not back down: "I understand what you showed me and why you did it. I understand… why you kept the fate of… my mother from me." Her voice cracks as she says it, but he notices how she tries her best to keep going: "But… Henry, I need you to know…" she splutters. "I need you to know…"

He just waits in silence.

"I need you to know I don't regret what I did."

The feeling that invades him at that moment is horrifying. Perhaps, because, just as years ago he had been forced to empathize with his biological father, now he feels that he has no choice but to understand Brenner's feeling of helplessness.

The feeling of helplessness at being unable to control him.

"You would do it again." It is not a question.

"Yeah," she admits. "A thousand… times. If I could help my friend with that."

Henry grimaces and looks away. "Your friend, Eleven?"

"Yes," she insists firmly. "My friend Max."

Henry snorts. Eleven's smile carries the weight of the entire world. Or at least that's how it seems to him as she rises on her toes to rest a hand against his cheek, delicately sliding her fingers to wipe the still fresh blood from under his nose.

"Henry, I would have done it," she repeats, "if it had cost me my life."

Before he's able to come up with an appropriate reply to this, she drops her hand—her fingers, now, bloodstained—and takes a step back. Her brown eyes, however, do not stray from his.

"Then, you can show me… as many times as you want… the possible consequences of my actions and their dangers. But… do you know what I thought when I saw what Papa…? What Brenner did to my mom?"

Henry clenches his jaw in frustration. "No, I don't; enlighten me, Eleven."

She does not allow herself to be intimidated by the acidity of his words, but rather answers with conviction: "I thought 'I can't let this happen to Henry.'"